


A Good Cause

by Rosslyn



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Emhyr doesn't do normal conversations, Ensemble Cast, Geralt has trusty friends, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 15:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18236717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosslyn/pseuds/Rosslyn
Summary: “Come again,” Geralt said flatly.“It’s for a good cause, Geralt!” Dandelion said exasperatedly, as if that had ever justified any of his ideas before.





	A Good Cause

**Author's Note:**

> Like many, I've been portaled forcefully onto this ship by astolat's fics...

“Come again,” Geralt said flatly.

“It’s for a good cause, Geralt!” Dandelion said exasperatedly, as if that had ever justified any of his ideas before. “All that business with the war has really put Marabella's School for Tots under. Now that peace has been restored, the school could use a hand, and Marabella is such a dear — has a healthy appreciation of the artistic, that lady, and not afraid to teach her kids so — ”

Geralt stopped listening after the word ‘artistic’. “Get back to the point,” he said, as Zoltan gleefully set down two mugs of ale in front of him.

“You gonna need that, lad,” Zoltan said, nodding with a foreboding smirk on his face. Geralt did not like this at all.

“The idea is simple,” Dandelion began again with gusto. “I have organised an auction fundraiser, in a fortnight. Plenty to time to get the word out, as far and wide as we can. Now, I know what you are thinking,” he said, leaning across the table and nearly elbowing Zoltan in the process. “There’s an auction house already in Novigrad! How will we ever get people interested in our little event?”

Geralt glared at him across the rim of the mug. Dandelion, to his credit, was completely unfazed. He wagged a finger at Geralt, looking deeply pleased with himself. “The difference is, we will not be auctioning off mere _items_ , no,” he said, leaning back with satisfaction. “We will auction off the immeasurable, the incorporeal, the — ”

Geralt sighed through his nose. “Dandelion, if you have started using fisstech, I have a word of advice,” he said, while Zoltan pounded the table in laughter.

Dandelion huffed. “While you might not appreciate my lyrical talents,” he said haughtily, “I’m sure many of the attendees of our event will find it alluring. Whoever wins me, will get a song of their choosing, written by me. A grand prize, wouldn’t you say?”

That, Geralt could not disagree with. Say what you will about Dandelion, the man was a master troubadour. He sighed again and looked at Zoltan. “You got roped into this too?”

“Aye,” Zoltan said agreeably, “I will offer the highest bidder my services as a jewelsmith. Or the opportunity to win a mighty rare card from me in Gwent, whichever they prefer.”

“Priscilla will perform and dedicate a song of the highest bidder’s choosing,” Dandelion added, “I gather this will be very attractive to her myriad of fans. I’ve also rounded up some merchants in the city who are sympathetic to the cause. Did you know we had an excellent dumpling maker in our midst?”

“No idea,” Geralt said dryly.

“Well, what do you say, then?” Dandelion looked at him expectantly, and damn if Geralt couldn’t use a distraction as he chose to winter in Novigrad this year instead. He couldn’t bear to go back to Kaer Morhen, not when he knew it would stand all but empty this year. He had left Nilfgaard the day after Ciri’s coronation, and lingered at the crossroads for a good ten minutes, before giving Roach a small nudge towards the south. Novigrad was an assault on the senses, but it was preferable to the wild expanse of winter elsewhere, and it served him just fine.

“Alright, fine,” Geralt heaved another sigh, conceding defeat. “I’ll do a contract for free for the highest bidder. That sound good?”

“Magnificent,” Dandelion beamed, and Geralt proceeded to order three more bottles of Temerian rye to be put on Dandelion’s tab. If he was going to do this, he reckoned, he might as well do this drunk on Dandelion’s expense.

The word of their little fundraiser travelled fast, and two weeks later Geralt found himself staring at a poster featuring his truly with large decorative letters underneath, declaring: “Win the favour of the White Wolf! All for a good cause!” And in smaller, less conspicuous letters below, “All proceeds going towards Marabella’s School for Tots. Terms and conditions apply.”

The Rosemary and Thyme was packed with people that night, and Geralt noted with a start that many Nilfgaardian soldiers had been among them. They came in civilian clothing and seemed in good spirits, thumping the table and drinking ale and generally making merriment, but Geralt did not like the idea that one of them could be winning his _favour_ , of all things.

“Are you sure you don’t want to specify that I’m only offering to do a contract,” Geralt said, a little insistent, just before Dandelion was about to go on stage.

“Nonsense,” Dandelion waved a hand, “A favour is ambiguous, leaves open the imagination. Gets the purse open and the bids flowing, my friend.” He nodded to the dark throng of people, “You have many fans, Geralt, and many of them would surely prefer your _favour_ than your sword.”

“Aye, it’s too late to back out now,” Zoltan said, patting his arm in a knowing way, before Geralt could muster the strength to protest. “Let and let live, lad.”

Geralt watched desperately as the auction went down with aplomb. Three hundred crowns were bid for Hattori’s offer of free dumplings for a year, which was a good bargain, but you had to be a serious dumpling lover to agree to have them for _a year_. A Niflgaardian noblewoman, through her handmaiden as proxy, secured Zoltan’s jewelsmithing offer: six hundred crowns, for the most dazzling necklace that would wow the court come next season. Zoltan did not seem fazed by the request, and was rubbing his hands in excitement. Someone bid a herbalist one hundred and sixty crowns for an unusual and personalised concoction. He left with three giggling girls in tow. Geralt decided he needed a drink.

Some Nilfgaardian officer won the bid to have a favoured interest rate from Vivaldi for an upcoming loan. Another won a year of Gwent tutoring from one of the best players in the city, which Geralt felt was a smart deal. Priscilla caused a small riot as her fans entered into a small bidding war, which is not unexpected, and frankly amusing to watch. Then Dandelion went on the stage and announced his artistic talent was up for grabs, and the crowd went wild.

“I do love it when people appreciate my arts,” Dandelion said, face flushed and beaming wide, after an eye watering one thousand and six hundred crowns was announced for his services. Geralt had to give reluctant respect: this would keep the school afloat for at least a year. Dandelion took a swift swig from a wine cup, and bounced back on stage again:

“Ladies and gentlemen! Now for the finale you’ve all been waiting for — I present to you, the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia!”

Geralt dragged himself onstage and stood stoically at the centre.

“Now, you’ve all heard about the Witcher,” Dandelion began, “Their mutations, their power, their _legendary stamina_.”

“Didn’t agree to any of this,” Geralt mumbled under his breath.

“Tonight is your chance!” Dandelion announced, thrusting his arm upwards and sweeping expansively, nearly hitting Geralt on the nose. “Win the bid, win the White Wolf’s favour. Find out if the tales are true! We shall begin with eight hundred crowns, ladies and gentlemen, do I hear eight hundred?”

A forest of hands shot up. Geralt was equal parts mortified and pleased: Nilgaardian rule had meant an end to the city’s crazy witch hunt, and in general Nilgaardians treated nonhumans fairer than most, including Witchers, but he hadn’t been used to favourable treatment from people for long.

“Told you you have fans,” Dandelion whispered breathlessly in between fervent pointing and shouting. “Yes, gentleman at the left, one thousand and five hundred, do I hear one thousand and six hundred?”

The rate of numbers rising made Geralt feel giddy. Either Novigrad had a serious monster problem that he is the only person who did not know anything about, or he has _fans_ , which, considering it was something Dandelion suggested, sounded even more implausible.

Gradually the number of contestants dwindled to only two, and Geralt realised with renewed mortification and he was the cause of the largest bidding war of the night. One Nilfgaardian officer with a grim, determined look on his face kept raising his hand, while another wealthy-looking townsman also kept shouting out new sums, looked increasingly harried and wild-eyed.

“Two thousand and fifty! Do I hear sixty? Sixty to the gentleman on the right, seventy from you, officer? Seventy it is, eighty? Alright,” Dandelion whipped back and forth between the two men while the everyone thumped the table, and Geralt felt mildly nauseous. No contract he ever took had costed a thousand, let alone two.

After a few minutes of back and forth, the Nilfgaardian officer grew impatient. “Five thousand crowns,” he announced, shocking the room into silence. Geralt stared desperately ahead.

“Five… five thousand from the fine officer,” Dandelion repeated weakly. “I don’t suppose…?”

The wealthy townsman looked torn. His hand twitched in his lap, and for a split second he looked like he was going to speak, but after a few beats, he fell silent and shook his head, dejected.

The room watched with abated breath as Dandelion slowly raised the gravel, hit the table, and announced: “Five thousand crowns, the favour of the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, to the fine officer at the back!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, and Geralt felt dizzyingly drunk, before accepting a mug of ale that was thrusted into his hand, and downing it heartily. Ignoring Dandelion’s babbling, he pushed through the crowd to reach the defeated townsman, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” he said a little awkwardly, as the man turned around in surprise, “For what’s worth, I’m happy to take on whatever contract you need doing. You needn’t have bid that high for my services.”

The townsman eyed him oddly. He wore elaborate, wealthy looking clothes in the Vizimian fashion, and didn’t sound like a man that had any pressing monster troubles. “I appreciate the offer, Geralt of Rivia,” he said, “But we must be a good sport. The officer outbid me, alas.”

“Um,” Geralt said eloquently, but the townsman only inclined his head and left.

“Geralt!” Dandelion called, sounding impatient, and Geralt found himself being dragged backstage, where all the winning bidders were huddled around their prized persons. Dandelion led him to the Nilfgaardian officer, who sat in a corner with a pinched expression on his face.

“I’ll leave it to you two then,” Dandelion said, and gave Geralt a look: a look that said Geralt had better swallow his pride and take whatever that man has planned, within reason, because this was five thousand crowns and for a good cause.

Geralt sighed and sat down. “Alright, thanks for that, I guess,” he said. “What is it you need? A dragon took up residence in Nilfgaard? Though for that kind of money, you could have paid for ten dragons,” he said, somewhat ineffectually.

The officer didn’t seem amused by his joke, but he didn’t seem interested in making a proposition either, which made Geralt relax a little. In fact, the officer looked distracted.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind,” Geralt prodded gently, “What prompted you to spend that obscene amount of money.”

The Nilfgaardian officer eyed him, as if he didn’t believe the money was worth it. Abruptly, he rose and said: “Follow me.”

Geralt did, obediently, with half a mind to bolt if the officer led him upstairs to one of the rooms — thankfully, the officer only led him out the back door. They walked around in bewildering silence for a while, until Geralt looked up, and realised he was standing outside the Kingfisher.

“Okay,” Geralt began, “I don’t know what promise Dandelion sold you, but this isn’t part of the deal. I’m not whoring myself out, good cause or no.”

The officer ignored him pointedly, and instead led him through a suspiciously empty tavern, up the stairs, and past some rowdy rooms that housed an alarming number of Nilfgaardian soldiers. He stopped in front of an elaborate oak door, one of the finest rooms the inn had to offer, and stood at parade rest. Geralt eyed the door warily. After a few terse seconds, he gestured for Geralt to enter.

Sighing, Geralt reminded himself again that this was for a good cause, and he has done stranger things for less money. He pushed open the door, and found himself staring at the newly retired, former Emperor of Nilfgaard, Emhyr var Emeris.

“What the fuck,” Geralt said, flat.

Emhyr was exactly how Geralt remembered having left him, in Nilfgaard: he was pouring over some document or other on the table, and straightened when he saw Geralt. He looked utterly unsurprised.

“Witcher,” Emhyr said, not unpleasantly. “I see you have made yourself useful to the city’s rebuilding efforts.”

Geralt stared, took two steps forward, and stared some more. “As I said, _what the fuck,_ Emhyr, is Ciri okay?”

“The Empress is doing well,” Emhyr said, pouring some expensive looking wine into the goblet and gesturing for him to sit. Never one for etiquette, Geralt sat. And drank, heavily, because he had a feeling he was going to need it.

“So what’s with all the round about shady business? ” Geralt said. “You could’ve just — ”

Emhyr glanced at him, mildly amused, and Geralt closed his mouth. It was annoying that Emhyr knew him better than himself, sometimes: he knew Geralt was not one to be summoned to court easily, not when Ciri is safe and sound.

“Alright, let’s hear it, then,” Geralt said. “What do you need.”

Which is how Geralt found himself in a Nilfgaardian camp in the darkest depths of Velen, staring at the corpse of a Nilfgaardian quartermaster. Emhyr had told him, in a succinct summary, that there had been a serial killer on the loose in Velen, attacking Nilfgaardian officers in various camps. Not a concern big enough to cross the Empress’s desk, but a perfect mystery for a retired Emperor to fix his attention on. As it was the depth of winter, hired professional help was scarce, and Geralt had been the ideal candidate. Or so Emhyr implied.

“For five thousand crowns?” Geralt had asked, dubiously. “You could hire a small army with that.”

“There has been five murders,” Emhyr said, “This, I suspect, will not be an easy feat.”

“One thousand then,“ Geralt said, feeling a little foolish, because when was the last time he haggled _down_ for his services? “I don’t prejudice against Emperors, former or current.”

The corner of Emhyr’s mouth had twitched then. “One thousand,” he agreed, “The rest for your discretion, if you must have a reason for it.” Which is to say, he spent as much as he did, simply because he could. Plus, Witchers are supposed to be neutral, but Geralt’s daughter in all but name is sitting on the Nilfgaardian throne, so he thought that boat has long since sailed.

“Let’s just agree that was for a good cause,” Geralt said, pinched.

Emhyr had inclined his head regally then, but Geralt knew he was being laughed at. Still, venturing out in the winter to look for a serial killer — not exactly the respite he had planned for, but also it was exactly the kind of misadventure he knew he would end up in by agreeing to one of Dandelion’s plans.

“What exactly happened?” Geralt asked, after examining the body. It was a single slash wound to the carotid artery: precise and deadly.

“It happened all so fast,” the Nilfgaardian solider who claimed to be a witness seemed intimidated by Geralt’s arrival and his two swords, “I was speaking to the quartermaster about our requisitions this month, and everything was normal, and I left the tent, and I heard this sound — ” he gestured with his hand, as if grasping for words. “Like a horse being whipped, but underwater — I heard a shout, and when I went back in, I found him on the floor, dead.”

Geralt’s eyebrows rose. “Just like that? You didn’t see anyone?”

The solider shook his head. “No, it can’t have been more than five, six seconds, and the tent was not damaged — the killer just vanished into thin air.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt said.

The reports from all other camps were remarkably similar: the killer came and went following a sound, sometimes loud like thunder, sometimes sharp like a horsewhip, sometimes muffled like underwater. No matter how fast the men responded, the killer was always gone by the time they reached the victim. So far, casualties included a corporal, a quartermaster, two sergeants and a lieutenant. Geralt had a strange feeling that these men were related somehow, but he could not put his fingers on why. It didn’t help that heavy rain and snow had descended on much of Velen, wiping any previous tracks clean. Each camp took a few days of riding, and after three weeks of wandering around camps and getting nothing new, he returned to Novigrad.

The tavern was still empty, and the innkeeper snoozed behind the bar — apparently Emhyr had saw fit to commandeer the whole of the Kingfisher for his majestic use alone. He was again pouring over some document when Geralt entered.

“The victims bore no relation to each other,” Emhyr said, before Geralt even dusted the snow off his gauntlet. Geralt paused and shook his head; he hated it when he did that.

“Then I’m fresh out of leads,” Geralt said. “I first thought was the killer was doing it through magical portals. But portals take a long time to set up, and Triss said she’s not aware of any murdering sorceresses at the Lodge, not at the moment, anyhow.”

“Encouraging,” Emhyr murmured. He glanced at Geralt. “You have other concerns. Speak.”

“The victims,” Geralt said, “They all seem… familiar, somehow.”

Emhyr straightened. “Have you dealt with them in the past?”

Geralt had been thinking about this long and hard, but the truth is, he has been on the Path for so long, all the faces blur together. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t try to remember the faces of the people who eye me with open distrust.” Or spit on him, for that matter.

“That is unfortunate,” Emhyr said. “This leaves us no option but to wait for the killer to strike again.”

There was something in his posture that made Geralt pause. “You know something, don’t you?” he said, “What is it you are not telling me?”

Emhyr shook his head minutely. “A theory. We have no way to ascertain whether it has merit, until the next attack.”

“Well, I’d like to know that theory,” Geralt said deliberately. He usually did not like Emhyr’s mind games, and liked it even less when it involved him.

Emhyr merely looked at him, and gestured at the table. Geralt walked closer, and saw that Emhyr had painstakingly noted the lives of every victim so far: their military careers, families, origins, associates. This was nothing he didn’t know before.

“There is no order in anything else,” Emhyr said, pointing at the top of the parchment, “Except their military rank. The first attack was against a corporal. Second and third were against sergeants. The fourth to fell was a lieutenant, and most recently, the quartermaster — a captain.”

Geralt thought about this. “You think someone is killing up the Nilfgaardian rank?” He had noted that increasing importance of the victims, but could not find any evidence suggesting deliberate orchestration. “Could be a coincidence.”

“Perhaps,” Emhyr said. His tone suggested he does not believe in coincidences. “Let us see.”

“Wait,” Geralt said, staring at the parchment with sudden clarity. The descriptions of the victims were accompanied by their portraits, and lined up next to each other, Geralt suddenly understood why the victims all felt familiar.

“They — all look like you,” Geralt said, amazed.

Emhyr was frowning as he examined the parchment again. “I beg your pardon,” he said, but he didn’t sound offended, only mildly perplexed.

Geralt gestured at the portraits. “Dark hair. Similar complexion, similar hairstyle. Similar brooding look too — are you a fashion icon among your men?”

Emhyr was not amused. “You have just described half of Nilfgaard’s military and respectable society,” he said.

“Call it a theory as well, then,” Geralt said. “I’ve had to go on with less before.”

Emhyr regarded him for a while. “Very well,” he said, pressing his palm over a small stone on his table. The Nilfgaardian officer that bid for Geralt on auction night appeared immediately by the door.

“The Witcher dines with me tonight,” Emhyr said. “Ready a bath and room for him also.” The officer bowed and left.

“Uh,” Geralt said.

“Geralt,” Emhyr said with maddening patience, “Your theory stipulates that there is a unassailable killer intent on causing me harm. Forgive me if I do not trust this matter with anyone else.”

Geralt stared at him. “Yeah,” he said, slowly. “Yeah, okay.” If someone is out there to get Emhyr, he didn’t trust this with anyone else, either. Whatever you might say about the man, he was Ciri’s father. And once upon a time, Geralt might even have considered him a friend.

“Does this mean,” Geralt said with slow dawning realisation over a bowl of excellent beef stew, “That I’m not to leave your side?” Given how fast the killer worked, this was the only way that Geralt could possibly intervene, if Emhyr was actually the target.

“Yes,” Emhyr said calmly, as if the idea did not bother him at all. “I am beginning to think five thousand crowns is adequate payment for your services, after all.”

“For a good cause,” Geralt raised a mock toast sarcastically. To his surprise, Emhyr also drank, and they fell into amicable silence. Geralt attacked the food with gusto, and relished in the expensively good wine Emhyr offered: one of the few perks of working for an Emperor, former or no. Emhyr watched him eat with a quiet fascination. Geralt, feeling prankish, told him cheekily that it was the Witchers’ legendary metabolism that allowed for their legendary stamina, and yes, whatever you’ve heard, it’s all true. Emhyr snorted. Geralt told him a few stories about Ciri, and Emhyr listened closely; and he continued to watched Geralt for the whole evening with a kind of quiet intent that really should have been disturbing but somehow Geralt could not bring himself to complain about.

Emhyr offered him a game of shah, then another, then three games of Gwent, best out of seven, and Geralt lost spectacularly in all of them. In hindsight, it was perhaps a mistake to play against one of the best master strategists in the world, especially after his third bottle of wine. Damn, the Kingfisher had really comfy fireplace seats. Geralt sprawled in them, relishing the heat after weeks of riding in the snow.

“A bath, I should think,” Emhyr said, and Geralt remembered belatedly that he was not supposed to leave Emhyr’s side. There are no bath houses in the Kingfisher, but a large bronze tub was readied in Emhyr’s room. Geralt followed him, and stood awkwardly shuffling his feet, while Emhyr began to undress. At the sight of Emhyr’s pale back, Geralt swallowed, and glanced at the partition screen.

“Do you think that is wise,” Emhyr murmured, and Geralt thought, no, it isn’t, with a killer this fast, every second counts. And then,

“How do you do that,” Geralt said desperately. He doesn’t bother clarifying _what_.

Emhyr didn’t turn, but there is a hint of a smile in his voice. “As I said, I do not trust this matter with anyone else.” He lowered himself into the water.

Geralt didn’t know what to think, didn’t dare to think. How did he get himself into this mess again? He was going to strangle Dandelion. “Want me to rub your back?” he blurted, helpless and a little desperate, and not at all sarcastic in the way that he hoped.

“If you are amenable,” Emhyr said, which is not how Geralt thought he would reply. He was going to strangle Dandelion very, very slowly. He stared.

“The oil is on the table,” Emhyr added, which, entirely unhelpful, and absurd, and Geralt’s traitorous feet had already moved before his brain had time to come up with a witty retort.

“I hope these tots are getting a real good education,” Geralt said through gritted teeth, pouring message oil onto his hands, and fuck, he didn’t know what to do.

Emhyr sounded amused. “Usually, this requires a degree of skin to skin contact,” he said in that maddeningly patient voice again, and Geralt grabbed his shoulders and gave a good, hard squeeze.

Emhyr let out a strangled noise, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice advised him manhandling the former Emperor was probably a hangable offence. Geralt didn’t care. “Too hard?” he said innocently, rubbing wide circles into Emhyr’s shoulder and back.

After a few beats, Emhyr relaxed into touch. “On the contrary,” he said, “I find it refreshing.”

Geralt ground his teeth and got to work. Emhyr had tense muscles everywhere — probably born brooding and tense, Geralt thought bitterly, as he worked to free some of the tension in Emhyr’s shoulders. Despite his misgivings, he watched Emhyr’s expression closely, and after a while, found the perfect amount of force that was neither too much nor too little. He set to loosen the tension points methodically, almost single-mindedly, meditatively, because Emhyr remained pliant under his hands, and made small noises that Geralt did not dare to think deeply about.

“You are truly a man of many talents, Witcher,” Emhyr said after a while. Geralt couldn’t help but snort.

Emhyr did not bother turning when it was Geralt’s turn to undress, in his adjoining room, with another steaming bath tub. He was wrapped in bathrobes, and looked completely in his element. Geralt stopped undoing his breeches, and stared pointedly.

“Would you like me to read a book while you bathe,” Emhyr said, maddeningly regal, and Geralt’s hand twitched in a strange urge, for what, he did not know.

“You could return the favour,” Geralt said, sarcastically, pulling off his breeches in one move. He stepped into the tub, sat down, and let out a satisfied sigh. He had missed this, riding around in Velen, dousing himself with only snow water for three weeks.

“Very well,” Emhyr said, and a beat later, firm hands kneaded at his shoulders.

“Uh,” Geralt said intelligently. Then, “Ohhhh,” because Emhyr clearly knows what he’s doing, and he’s _good_.

“Are you always this eloquent,” Emhyr asked mildly. The oil smelled of pine needles and smoke.

“Only when I’m being massaged by the Emperor of Nilfgaard,” Geralt said. Emhyr was running a firm hand up and down the muscles at the side of his neck, and he fought the urge to sink lower into the water.

“Former Emperor of Nilfgaard,” Emhyr corrected. “You saw no reason to follow court etiquette when I was the Emperor, I see no reason why you should start doing so now that I have retired.”

Geralt closed his eyes and huffed out a laugh. “Is that what you are gonna do now,” he said, “Dishing out wisdom and advice like a sage?”

“I also have my talents,” Emhyr said mildly. His hand had moved to his back. “Tell me about this scar.”

Geralt had to concentrate a few seconds to feel which scar he was talking about. “An archgriffin,” he said. “I just got out of a cave full of alghouls, and it swooped in on me from behind. Caught me off guard.”

“Hmm,” Emhyr said.

“And before you ask,” Geralt said, feeling secretly pleased that he could do _this_ too, “No, this kind of thing does not happen often.”

Emhyr swept a hand over his back, just very lightly, and Geralt felt his goosebumps raise. “Your record begs to differ,” Emhyr said, though there was no challenge in his tone.

“Every one of these was because of a good reason, and a _different_ reason,” Geralt said.

“Hmm,” Emhyr said. “And how many of these reasons have made into Master Dandelion’s songs?”

“Too many,” Geralt said, pained. Then, “Wait, you know Dandelion?”

“After reading the colourful advertisement for your auction, naturally,” Emhyr said.

“Great,” Geralt said. Dandelion was going to have a field day about this — or not, depending on how he relayed the news. Maybe he’ll tell Dandelion that Emhyr has noticed him, but refrain on why, or how. That’ll make him anxious enough that it might be enough punishment for getting Geralt in this mess. Although, he reflected with some posterity, he was enjoying himself — Emhyr was very attentive, far more than he thought an Emperor would be.

“And this?” Emhyr asked again, hands stilling at his collarbone. Geralt glanced down, huffed, and shook his head.

“Pitchfork.”

He could feel Emhyr’s eyebrow rise.

“Ciri didn’t tell you? Not my proudest moment.” He recounted the story, and thought for a moment. “I guess the North were far more hostile to non-humans and Witchers, before you came along.”

“Indeed,” Emhyr murmured. “May I?”

“Hmmm?” Geralt was so relaxed that he did not catch up to Emhyr’s words immediately. Emhyr’s hand, which had been stilled, continued downwards, and were now over his chest scar. Not quite a caress, but not quite a massage either. A slow, contemplative and exploratory motion, as if he’s solving a puzzle in his own head, and using Geralt as a canvas.

It was not unpleasant, and the wine and hot water had made him sufficiently drowsy that he did not mind this at all. After a while, Emhyr’s hand returned to his neck, and rested there.

Geralt opened his eyes, leaned back and peered at him. Emhyr is wearing a strange expression on his face, his eyes intent, as if observing a game of shah that he had yet to win. Slowly, Emhyr pressed a hand under his chin, and caressed his jaw with a thumb.

“You will tell me if I’m wrong,” Emhyr said, and leaned down.

Geralt froze. Emhyr stopped mere inches before his face, eyes dark and enrapt, and Geralt twitched forward of his own accord — abruptly he was being dragged onto his feet, and a stool was being kicked, and Emhyr grabbed his head and went all in. Geralt inhaled reflexively, deeply, and smelled pine needles and smoke, and something else heady and strong, and realised Emhyr was aroused, and his traitorous cock already stood to attention before he could think about what this means. Emhyr’s hand was still wet and slippery from the massage oil, and he reached and pulled on Geralt’s cock, once, twice, and Geralt forgot what he was supposed to be thinking about.

Emhyr pushed him onto the bed: he should have known that Emhyr did nothing by halves, and conquered his bedmate the same way he conquered lands. Geralt grunted as Emhyr slid in in one go, to the hilt, and forcefully relaxed himself. Emhyr had a hand to the back of his neck, and was pressing down lightly, while the other hand was pressing firm bruises into his hip.

“You will tell me if you — ” Emhyr began, and Geralt turned his face as much as he could while being pushed onto the mattress, and gave him an incredulous eye.

“— find any of this disagreeable,” Emhyr said, and he didn’t even sound out of breath, despite Geralt being able to feel a distinct throbbing inside. He squeezed down, and got a surprised grunt, to which he said, a little viciously,

“How’s that for agreeable?”

Emhyr tightened his grip. Geralt choked out a noise, feeling his blood rise and his cock swell, and Emhyr began to plough into him in earnest. After a few minutes of hard and long thrusts, Emhyr leaned down, inhaled against his ear and bared his teeth, and Geralt couldn’t help but whimpered a little. Emhyr wound an arm around his chest and pulled him up, and remained hilted in Geralt while they rearranged themselves, each tussle sending little stars behind Geralt’s eyes. Eventually Emhyr had Geralt in a vice grip around his torso, and fucked into him deep and steady, and Geralt panted and nearly forgot his name. He grappled blindly for his own cock, so full it’s close to bursting, but Emhyr got there before him; Emhyr’s hand was smooth with only pen callouses, which he palmed over Geralt’s sensitive head, and Geralt keened. He pulled on Geralt’s cock to the rhythm of his fucking, and Geralt could not breathe, could only blindly holding on as Emhyr fucked him through an explosive orgasm.

“If you keep doing this,” Geralt said, after a few minutes when Emhyr showed no signs of stopping, “I’m gonna — ”

“By all means,” Emhyr said, and Geralt got hard again, and Emhyr had him grab the headboard and fucked him harshly and relentlessly for what felt like hours, and made him come without ever touching his cock. Emhyr made a small noise seeing him coming undone like that, and pulled out just in time to spray all over Geralt’s back. Sated and giddy from the high, Gerald didn’t even complain.

They moved to Emhyr’s room afterwards, since Geralt’s bed was completely soiled — and Emhyr called for a clean bath for them both. The Nilfgaardian officer Geralt first saw, Captain Merrin, had a ticking muscle in his jaw when he relayed the orders.

“I thought Nilfgaardians had open minds,” Geralt said, when Captain Merrin left the room.

“That is not why he is irked,” Emhyr said, shrugging on another bathrobe. “He is merely scandalous at the thought of anyone being allowed to sleep with two swords at my side.”

Geralt snorted. “You can tell him it’s for a good cause,” he said, and Emhyr gave him a long suffering look and kissed him again.

Geralt turned over in his sleep, and nudged something warm by his foot. He woke with a little start, and realised he was in Emhyr’s bed: Emhyr, who was already awake, was staring at the ceiling with a little frown on his face.

“Guess retired Emperors can finally get their lie ins,” Geralt said.

“If both our theories hold true,” Emhyr said, as if continuing a conversation that they never left, “Then there are only two candidates that befit the description.”

“Okay,” Geralt said. He waited, but Emhyr’s expression did not change: he looked less confused about the attack, but more mystified at himself. Geralt turned a little to the side, and saw that parchments on the table had been disturbed since last night.

“Wait,” Geralt said slowly, “You’ve already sent word to watch those men in the morning?”

“I have increased the patrols to the camps, but thought it prudent not to raise alarm by assigning them a personal bodyguard at all times,” Emhyr said. He’s still lying ramrod straight and staring at the ceiling.

Geralt propped himself up on an elbow and raised an eyebrow. Emhyr had gotten up, did some work, and came back to bed again. “As I said,” Geralt mused, “Retired Emperors deserve their lie ins.”

Emhyr inhaled sharply, and let it out in a huff. “Must you be so incorrigible first thing in the morning,” he murmured, and swung himself off the bed. Geralt caught him by the waist, and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck — Emhyr tensed at the touch, but did not move. Geralt nudged at Emhyr’s hair and neck, smelling faintly of fresh pine, until the scent became woven with something else too, smoky and familiar.

“Witcher,” Emhyr said, low, and it sounded both like a warning and an invitation.

“And six hangable offences before breakfast,” Geralt said, and snaked a hand inside Emhyr’s nightshirt. “I do try. You will also tell me if any of this is disagreeable, no doubt.”

“I am no longer in the liberty of handing out capital punishments,” Emhyr said, voice steady and face a mask, although Geralt needed little of his Witcher senses to feel that Emhyr’s heart was picking up in pace.

“Missed your chance, then,” Geralt murmured, and went to work.

Emhyr came in his hand surprisingly soon afterwards, breathing long and deep through his nose. When he opened his eyes, it was stormy, as if braced for an internal struggle. Geralt didn’t miss the way his throat bobbed, when he had kissed him again, just behind the ear.

The report of a sixth attack came in the fifth day: another Captain, however, it was not one of the two candidates Emhyr had mentioned. According to his conscript file, the man had dark brown hair, a fair complexion, and did not look very much like Emhyr at all.

“Guess your theory stands better,” Geralt shrugged. “Want me to ride out and check the body again?”

Emhyr didn’t answer at first. After a few beats, he said, “That would be wise,” and returned to the massive oak table. Geralt watched him starting to write on a parchment with a slightly unsettled feeling, as if he had missed out on something, then realised with a sudden jolt that they had spent almost a week inside the Kingfisher suite, alone with each other.

Emhyr had kept himself busy with books and whatever paperwork that retired Emperors still do, and Geralt had poured over some sword diagrams and potion recipes himself, trying to improve upon it, and he had grown so accustomed to the companionable silence that he had briefly forgotten what it was like to sit by a campfire in the freezing wild with no one but Roach to talk to. In the evenings they had played Gwent, and Geralt had insisted that yes, Cow is a real card and it had special powers just like it said on the card, and Emhyr had won it from him in less than two days. They worked themselves through the Kingfisher’s not unimpressive wine collection, and had very agreeable sex. It was almost domestic.

Emhyr continued to write with all the gravitas of an Emperor Emeritus at work. Geralt went towards him, and stood just a step back. He waited, and watched as Emhyr slowly turned his head to look at Geralt in the face, as if drawn by some impalpable force.

“I’ll be back, you know,” Geralt said.

Emhyr nodded, slow. “See that you do.”

Geralt rode out to the camp, which was barely half a day’s ride, and was met by a very fidgety quartermaster, who told him the exact same story: it happened very quickly, there was a loud sound, and the killer vanished into thin air afterwards. By then the stories of the assassinations have reached all the camps, and all the officers have pinched expressions. It didn’t help that only ranked officers seemed to be the targets. What didn’t make sense, though, was that the Captain was recently promoted: just two days prior.

“Extraordinary foresight, or insider help in high places,” Geralt said. The quartermaster flinched, but otherwise just stared at him in despair.

“Show me the body,” Geralt sighed. He really hated politics.

They didn’t have time to prepare the captain yet, he was lying in the tent where he fell, but there were enough panicked footsteps nearby to make any tracks unusable.

Something caught Geralt’s attention then. “What’s this,” he said, picking up a gold necklace around the captain’s neck. It was thick, overly decorative, and had a gold and black emblem hanging off it.

“A luck emblem,” the quartermaster said. “He said it will wear it for a week if he got promoted. Guess he kept his word…” he trailed off.

Something was not right. Geralt thought about all the other victims, and how by the time he got there, the soldiers have already washed and placed the bodies in a medic’s tent. There were no articles of clothing or jewellery when he had inspected them. He stared at the emblem, and felt the pieces of the puzzle starting to come together.

“Where did he get this emblem, do you know?” Geralt asked.

The quartermaster blinked. “The temple in Nilfgaard, most likely,” he said, “It’s a fad. Started by some noble family who claimed it worked. Expensive, but not hard to get. Supposed to help your ambitions, further career, help you in the tide of battle — that sort of thing. Popular among aspiring officers.”

Geralt rode to the nearest site of previous attack and enquired after the emblem. The two sergeants that had been attacked both had them on their bodies. So did the next camp, and the next. They had found the link between these murders.

From Velen to Nilfgaard was going to be a long and tedious ride, and Geralt resigned himself to two more weeks in the snow. He made his way to Vizima, first, having a mind to send a message to both Ciri and Emhyr, and made into the city on the fifth day at dusk. Void of Nilfgaard’s imperial presence, Vizima’s life had returned to normal: bustling shops, boisterous merchants. Peace had been good to the city. The only visible Niflgaardian influence was the worksmen busy installing the sewers, the flags flying over the central square, and the painted portraits of Emhyr hanging outside the city hall — they have not had time to commission an official one for Ciri yet. Geralt nudged Roach to a stop in front of the marble building, and looked. The portrait was hang too high up for passerby to see properly, no doubt to increase the mystery and prevent possible vandalism. The sun cast a golden ray over Emhyr’s face, and made his hair glisten almost like a hazelnut colour. Watching over Vizima, the height gave the illusion that his face is turned towards the onlooker, no matter where they went. This is an Emperor’s look: dispassionate, and regal.

Then Geralt saw it. The golden chain of office, worn around the Emperor’s neck. A sudden chill ran down his spine.

“Shit,” Geralt breathed, and turned Roach around and made for Novigrad as fast as he could, heart hammering in his chest.

Geralt rode through the Hierarch Gate just as the sun was rising. Novigrad was blanketed in snow, and Roach whinnied loudly when he pulled him to a stop in a flurry of white dust. Geralt flipped off the horse and ran towards one of the merchants just settling up in the square, and thrust forward a bag of coins in his startled face.

“Glamour charms,” Geralt said, “I know you have some. Saw you picking around the mage’s hideout six moons ago. I won’t tell, if you sell me one.”

The merchant gulped. “I only managed to salvage the one,” he said, “But —”

“I won’t ask again,” Geralt said, shaking the purse impatiently.

The snoozing innkeep startled heavily, and called after him: “Hey! We are closed for important guests!” but Geralt ignored him, and made up the stairs three in one. Captain Merrin was standing outside Emhyr’s suite, and looked appropriately alarmed at his fast approach:

“Master Witcher — ” he began, but Geralt already pushed him aside.

Emhyr had just risen. He was wearing a black and gold robe, and was idly adjusting his sleeves, raising an eyebrow elegantly when he saw Geralt skidding to a halt in front of him.

“Witcher,” he said, and made a small noise of surprise when Geralt grabbed his hand.

Geralt held the sleeve up to the light: it was weaved with shimmering faint green patterns. Dimeritium, to prevent the use of magic and spells. Emhyr smelled like fresh pine and warm cedar. Every second was a risk.

“Take it off,” Geralt said, and made a move to push the robe off him; Emhyr flinched when his snow-covered gloves swiped against warm skin. Behind them, Captain Merrin made an aggravated noise.

“Stand down,” Emhyr said calmly over his shoulder, then, “Merrin, _leave us_.”

“Please,” Geralt said, “Emhyr — ”

“While I appreciate the enthusiasm,” Emhyr paused and watched Geralt for a second. Just as easily, he acquiesced, and allowed Geralt to pull the robe from his shoulder.

Geralt knelt down, and sweet Metelite, even this guy’s underwear had black and gold sun embossed in it. He reached out to take these off as well, and Emhyr stilled his hand.

“ _While_ I appreciate the enthusiasm,” Emhyr repeated, steadily, “Are you poisoned? A succubus, by chance.”

Geralt licked his lips. “Is your underwear made with dimeritium?”

Emhyr blinked. “No,” he said, and slowly sat down on the bed. Geralt looked around; the plain bathrobe that he wore while he stayed here was still hanging by the bed.

“I have no idea if this is going to work,” Geralt said. “Put these on.”

He offered the charm and the robe to Emhyr, who sat watching him wordlessly. It was a simple glamour charm, designed to alter the appearance of the wearer, in the shape of the Eternal Fire. Geralt could not imagine that this was something that suited Emhyr’s aesthetics.

“I trust,” Emhyr said slowly, locking his gaze with Geralt as he shrugged on the robe and placed the charm around his neck, “There is a good explanation for this.”

A shimmering came down Emhyr’s person and Geralt blinked. Emhyr’s attire turned into a priest robe, but it was Emhyr’s face that stared back at him. The charm didn’t work properly. Geralt ran a frustrated hand through his hair, and said,

“I need to speak to Ciri.”

Ciri came to the megascope in a beat, wearing only a morning gown, her face drawn and worried: “Geralt?”

“Listen,” Geralt said, “When you travel with portals — how does it work? Do you have to visualise the place you want to go?”

“Yes,” Ciri said, brow drawn in confusion. “I had to visualise the place in my head. Why?”

“What if,” Geralt said slowly, “You didn’t know where you wanted to go, but only the person you wanted to go to?”

Ciri was taken aback by this. “I’ve never tried that,” she said. “I guess I have to visualise that person too.”

“What if you have never met the person, then?” Geralt said, “You don’t know what he actually look like, only seen him in portraits and paintings.”

Ciri stared at him. “Geralt, that’s really dangerous,” she said, “You could end up hitting the void in between worlds!”

“Or end up appearing next to the wrong person?” Geralt said.

“Seriously, that would be the least of your concerns,” Ciri said. “Geralt, what’s going on?”

Geralt pondered about this for a second, but decided Ciri had a right to know. “Emhyr, he — “

“Cirilla,” Emhyr said, stepping into view and smoothly cutting him off, “I trust all is in order in Nilfgaard.”

Ciri looked at him puzzled, back to Geralt, then back again, a few times. “Who is _that_?” she said, jabbing a thumb accusingly.

Emhyr raised an eyebrow. Geralt looked astonished. “Wait, you can’t —?” He stared at Emhyr, who gazed back with a small furrow in his brow. After a wordless beat, Emhyr stood up, walked over to the dressing table, bent his head over a small mirror lying on the tabletop, and fell silent.

“ _What_ is going on,” Ciri said, looking exasperated. “Geralt, since when are you friends with Eternal Fire priests?”

Geralt went over to the table and looked over Emhyr’s shoulder, into the mirror. An unfamiliar face stared back: austere lines, thick eyebrows and and a fair complexion. He startled, and glanced up. Emhyr turned slightly and looked back at him, lifting an eyebrow. The unfamiliar face in the mirror did too.

Now that _is_ odd.

“So this is going to sound weird,” Geralt said, somehow finding himself unable to peel his eyes off Emhyr, who looked remarkably calm for the madness that they found themselves in.

“Cirilla,” Emhyr cut in, “This is but a simple glamour charm. Why it fails to work on our Witcher, I do not know. This is one of the scavenger finds, I presume?”

“Radovid and his pyres,” Geralt said, frustratedly, “They don’t leave instructional manuals behind, do they?” He didn’t bother ask how Emhyr knew.

Ciri stared at them. “You are going to need to start from the beginning,” she said.

So Geralt started on the story of the serial murders, and told them what he had found in the camps. When he got to the part about the how he found out the victims all wore the same emblems, and that it came from the Temple of Nilfgaard, Emhyr immediately snapped his eyes to Ciri’s morning gown, and Geralt knew then Emhyr understood.

“So I think,” Geralt said at the end, “That someone with your kind of portal abilities is trying to get to Emhyr. Only trouble is, they’ve only seen Emhyr in portraits, and probably not even up close. The only thing they know is that the Emperor wears the chain of office. So they’ve been visualising a powerful man with a golden chain around their neck, and hoping for the best each time they jump, I guess.”

Geralt trailed off, frowning a little: something still didn’t up add up, another puzzle piece was missing. But he had established the most important thing so far, which is they cannot rule out that Emhyr was not the target.

“Are you literally saying that some incompetent, but extremely powerful killer, could portal themselves onto my father any moment,” Ciri said, voice flat as she rose, “because I’m going to need a few hours to shout at you both later, but this is a serious matter — ”

She moved off the megascope. Geralt had the distinct feeling that he was in a lot of trouble.

“One of your many talents, Witcher,” Emhyr said mildly. He returned to the table with the parchments, and began to sort them through with measured, purposeful moves. “I do believe an apology to General Voorhis is in order.”

Geralt blinked at him. Then, “Oh, no,” he said, “She — ” he wanted to say ‘can’t’ or ‘won’t, but secretly, he hoped that she would, actually, because it had been a long time since he went on an adventure with Ciri, and —

With a loud crack, Ciri stumbled into view. Geralt stared, and swallowed a sudden lump in his throat.

“You kept the outfit,” he said, a little foolishly. Ciri was wearing the same clothes when they had their last walk on the hill of the White Orchard, a single sword at her back, looking windswept and every bit as he’d remembered her.

Ciri’s face softened, before she snorted, and wrapped him a big hug. “I am still going to shout at you,” she said, and turned to Emhyr. “Don’t worry, father, Morvran has it all handled.”

Emhyr nodded from his table, and cast a glance in Geralt’s direction. Geralt _really_ hated when he did that.

“So what is the plan?” Ciri asked, “You can’t possibly keep my father as an Eternal Fire priest forever.”

“If indeed this is an assassination attempt,” Emhyr said, “then we have to go on the offensive.”

Ciri stared at him. “No,” she said, crossing her arms, “If you think I’m going to allow them plaster your portraits across all noticeboards in Velen and Novigrad just so some killer can have a good look at you and then come when you sleep —”

Emhyr’s lip twitched, and his eyes softened by a fraction. “You sound like your mother,” he said.

Ciri threw her hands up in the air. “Geralt,” she said accusingly, and Geralt sighed.

“There is another way,” Geralt said, looking at Emhyr, “But you can’t hang him.”

“I am already endearing to this idea,” Emhyr said dryly. “May I remind you that I am no longer at the liberty of handing out capital punishments.”

Geralt glanced at him, surprised; Emhyr sounded perfectly conversational, but there was a gleam in his eye that conveyed he had indeed meant it as an intimate joke.

“I, however,” Ciri said magnificently majestically, “would advise you both not to test the limits of my patience.”

Emhyr’s eyes were glinting with pride. Geralt wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch him or kiss him, probably both, at the same time.

“So what’s this grand idea of yours?” Ciri asked.

“Well,” Geralt said slowly, unable to drag his eyes off Emhyr, “I was thinking. Dandelion got me into this mess, he can get me out again.”

Dandelion’s approach could be heard from three rooms away, even without Witcher senses: he was protesting loudly all the way up the stairs. “I say,” Dandelion’s voice carried, “Captain Merrin, is it? There should be no urgency in the appreciation of the arts, the muse must flow freely — ”

The voice stopped abruptly as Merrin pushed open the door and gestured him inside. Dandelion squinted, and was visibly taken aback when Geralt sarcastically waved a hand at him.

“Geralt,” he said, sounding surprised and hurt, “But they said — the Kingfisher? I thought I could count on you not to patronise my competition!”

 “A long story,” Geralt said, just as Ciri turned around, smiled, and said, “Long time no see, Dandelion.”

Dandelion’s eyes nearly bugged out. He darted his eyes around the room, frowned at the sight of Emhyr — clearly puzzled at the presence of an Eternal Fire priest — and back to Ciri again.

“Ciri,” he said, then comically straightened and swept into a graceful bow, “I mean, your Imperial Majesty — ”

“Oh, cut it out,” Ciri said, warmly, and waved a hand; Dandelion’s eyes misted over.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you again,” Dandelion said, “I had been thinking about our adventures, and — and I was thinking of riding to Nilfgaard, at some point, but I wasn’t sure — ” He darted a look at Geralt, who shrugged helplessly.

“Why is everyone so weird now that I’m running the Empire,” Ciri said. “No, father, I know why. I just don’t like it.”

“The masterplan, Witcher,” Emhyr said pointedly.

“And why is there a priest in this room?” Dandelion said, “Is this some avant-garde immersive art set up? To help bridge humanity after the war?”

Emhyr’s hand twitched. Geralt glared at him. Emhyr stared back at him calmly, then smirked: Geralt shook his head. Ciri watched them with a tiny frown.

“You two _are_ weird,” she said thoughtfully.

Geralt decided enough was enough. “Dandelion, I need to you to do something,” he said, and Dandelion perked up. At least the guy was always enthusiastic about adventures. “I need you to go and get Whoreson Junior, and ask him to come here.”

Dandelion paled. “What? Geralt, old friend, you know I’d do anything for you, but this is really beyond my realm of expertise. I wouldn’t ask you to write a iambic pentameter, so perhaps you could also rethink this request?”

Geralt folded his arms. “No,” he said. “I think I like this request is just fine.” There was some savage satisfaction in watching Dandelion squirm, admittedly, but Geralt was not cruel, so he took pity on him and said, “You’ll live, trust me.”

Dandelion looked dubious, but nodded after a few seconds of contemplation. Then, to Geralt’s surprise, he turned towards Emhyr, cupped his hand and said: “Oh Eternal Fire, grant me wisdom and courage —”

“Out,” Geralt said, while Ciri bowled over laughing.

They had dinner together in the Kingfisher, in front of the warm fire. Ciri put her feet up on the table and dried out her boots in front of the fireplace, much to Emhyr’s ire — (“I’m the Empress now, I do as I please in my spare time”, Ciri had said, to which Emhyr replied, “Yes, do often remember the first part”) — and Geralt polished off three trays of food, much to Captain Merrin’s chargrin. Ciri giggled when he asked for dessert. Merrin cast a glance towards Emhyr in desperation, but Emhyr simply said: “As the Witcher wishes,” and Geralt shared a huge pie with Ciri, who sunk further back into the seat and looked every bit his little girl again.

Eventually, Ciri yawned, and looked at the darkening sky. “I must go,” she said a touch ruefully, turning to Geralt. “You are sure you two will be safe?”

“Don’t worry,” Geralt said. “The charm should keep him safe for now.”

Ciri sighed. “Let me know when Dandelion returns, will you?” she said, giving Geralt a tight hug. “I want to be here when the action happens.” She turned to Emhyr, reached out, and after an awkward beat, patted him on the shoulder. Emhyr watched her intently. Ciri shrugged. “You really do look like an Eternal Fire priest,” she said, then smirked and disappeared in a flash.

The room felt suddenly smaller with her gone. Geralt stared at the spot where she portaled away, and could feel Emhyr was doing the same: he sighed a little, realising that no matter what happened, Ciri was always going to be the one thing he and Emhyr had in common.

“She forgot to shout at us,” Emhyr murmured, standing up. “An Empress needs a better memory.”

Geralt snorted. “Don’t worry, she’ll get around to it.”

Emhyr hummed. His hand touched the charm. “You are aware that this offers enough protection for now,” he said, conversationally. “You are not obliged to stay.”

There was something about the way Emhyr said those words that made Geralt feel he was dropped into a conversation that he did not realise they had been having. Emhyr’s back was turned to him, but he could see the subtle lines of tension in his shoulder, and the way Emhyr breathed, steady and even, deliberate.

“I never did anything simply because I felt obliged,” Geralt said, slow.

Emhyr turned to face him. There was something unreadable in his eyes.

“Who do you see right now,” he said, voice low.

Geralt blinked. Emhyr was watching him, eyes dark and searching, jaw set in a firm line. He looked unhappy for reasons that Geralt could not comprehend. After a few beats, Geralt simply said, “You.”

Emhyr’s expression didn’t change as he watched Geralt for two more beats. “You are a fool,” he said softly.

Geralt snorted. This at least, he was used to. “Do you want me to argue with you on this?” he said, splaying a hand, “Or do you want me to come to bed.”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow. Geralt took a step closer, and Emhyr wound a hand into his hair; their foreheads touched. It was oddly intimate, and strangely intense, because Emhyr was still studying him like a map of a forge he was not sure how best to take. Geralt smiled.

“I’ve missed you too,” Geralt said, and kissed him.

Emhyr had missed him as well, it turned out; Geralt came embarrassingly quickly in Emhyr’s unrelenting grip, and then was fucked through another orgasm, and still Emhyr showed no sign of stopping. Geralt blinked the sweat out from his face, and peered upwards with half of his face plastered onto the pillow — Emyhr was still hard, and still regarding him with that blazing intent. Geralt thought about this, and huffed.

“Go on,” Geralt said. “You have me.”

Emhyr’s expression shifted minutely, as he pressed Geralt back down, and Geralt hissed at the near-pain the renewed punishing pace. He couldn’t see Emhyr’s face, but could feel Emhyr’s finger tightening around the nape of his neck, one hand holding him in a hard and unforgiving grip, while another stroked him lazily, almost tenderly. Emhyr came on his thigh just as Geralt felt himself tensing for climax a third time, and afterwards Emhyr pressed against him, reached a hand for his cock and breathed filthy words into his ear; Geralt shuddered violently and came again so hard his vision whited out.

Emhyr continued to stroke Geralt’s hair afterwards absentmindedly, and Geralt felt himself melting impossibly into the touch, a deep sense of satisfaction settling into his bones. He made a small noise of protest when Emhyr rose to extinguish the candles, and felt Emhyr turning to regard him.

“You are a fool,” Emhyr murmured again after a few seconds. His hand returned at Geralt’s hair, and Geralt drifted off to sleep before he could reply.

Dandelion came back the next day wearing an exceedingly strange expression, parts incredulity mixed with parts murderous rage and a healthy dose of ’what the fuck, Geralt’, and with Whoreson Junior in tow.

“The fuck am I gonna do with a priest,” said Whoreson upon entering the room.

“You keep colourful friends,” Emhyr observed.

“Just remember, if you hang any of them, Ciri will be pissed,” Geralt said, and Dandelion looked even more indignant; Whoreson however perked up.

“Ah, that’s why I’m here,” Whoreson said. “You got a job for me, Geralt?”

“I do,” Geralt said. “Dudu, I need you to impersonate Emhyr var Emeris, the former Emperor of Nilfgaard.”

Dandelion drew a sharp breath, and Whoreson’s one good eye bugged out. After a worried pause, Whoreson said, “I’d barely escaped Radovid’s pyre, I’d rather not burn at Emhyr’s, thanks.”

“You’ll be fine,” Geralt said. “Can you do it? Show me.”

Whoreson stared at him. After a few seconds of terse silence, Dudu the doppler shimmered off his disguise, and transformed into Emhyr var Emeris.

Emhyr hummed thoughtfully. “ _Very_ colourful friends,” he murmured. Geralt rolled his eyes.

“This’ll do,” Geralt said.

“I am nevertheless known to be in possession of both of my eyes,” Emhyr said, sounding mildly interested.

“Well, that’s not what our mystery guy is focusing on,” Geralt said. “We just need to make sure Dudu wears a golden chain bright enough to be seen outside of Novigrad.”

“I see,” Emhyr said, while Dudu and Dandelion exchanged bewildered glances. “And a panegyric, for the retired Emperor, performed in Novigrad, at the heart of former Redania. I am warming to the idea.”

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Geralt said sarcastically.

“This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever — Holy Melitele,” Dandelion said, “is that a glamour charm you are wearing? You are not a priest, are you? Are you — are you — ”

Geralt sighed, and waved a hand. Dandelion gulped, and darted a desperate look around the room, looked at Dudu, then back at the real Emhyr, and swept into an awkward and slightly shaky bow. Dudu looked more confused than ever.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Dandelion began, “please forgive my misgivings — ”

“That will not be necessary,” Emhyr said. “The occasion calls for discretion. Rise.”

“What in the name of seven heavens is going on,” Dudu said, “Will somebody give it to me straight?”

Emhyr grimaced.

“Wait,” Geralt said, “Have you never heard Emhyr speak before? You don’t sound like him at all.”

“Of course I’ve never heard Emhyr bloody var Emeris speak!” Dudu exclaimed, throwing his hand up in the air. “I’ve barely caught sight of Radovid before scurrying away with my tail in my arse, haven’t I?”

“Argh,” Geralt said, “Can you just… sit, and brood?”

Dudu sat down heavily on the armchair, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and glared at Geralt. The resemblance was uncanny.

“Perfect,” Geralt said. Emhyr sighed minutely. “It’s for a good cause,” Geralt added, cheerfully.

Dandelion groaned something like ‘hanged before the moon’s over’, and Geralt bared his teeth in a grin. Emhyr ignored him.

“Master Dandelion,” Emhyr began, “ Are you able to write, and perform a panegyric in a week’s time?”

Dandelion paled. “Uh,” he said, furrowing his brow, “I could — but a week? The artistic process, the muse, it does not obey — ”

“I am aware that your allegiance has not been uniform throughout your career,” Emhyr said, inconsequentially. “However, I am also informed the Empress holds you in high regard.”

Dandelion swallowed audibly, and darted a desperate look at Geralt. Geralt shrugged.

“Therefore I will not ask you to perform a masterpiece written from the heart,” Emhyr continued. “A passable tune will do. I am not so vain as to believe a panegyric is an accurate reflection of my career. The purpose is to draw out a certain character that we have not been able to track. You merely need to advertise far and well, and draw a crowd. Much like your auction,” Emhyr added, “Which I hear was commendably successful.”

“Oh,” Dandelion said automatically, “It was for a good cause. And Geralt helped a lot, five thousand crowns! Speaking of,” he said, frowning at Geralt, “What did they want you to do?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Geralt said sarcastically.

“Indeed,” Emhyr said, “The favour of the White Wolf is certainly noteworthy.”

“Oh for,” Geralt said, rolling his eyes, “Dandelion, can you do it or not? Just sing _something_ , it doesn’t have to be good. We just need the pretence to lure someone out.”

“I beg your pardon!” Dandelion said indignantly. “I will not sully my art so. Just you wait. In one week’s time, I shall have a befitting panegyric for you, your Imperial Highness.” he swept into another bow, deep and more graceful this time, and huffed at Geralt when he straightened.

“Dudu, I need to you to pretend to be Emhyr for one night,” Geralt said. “You just need to sit and brood, yeah, like this. Don’t say a word. We’ll make sure you are sat far enough that nobody can get a good look at you.”

Dudu looked dubious, but nodded nonetheless. “You helped me more than once, Geralt,” he said, transforming into his real self, “so I will do this for you. But I’ve gotta say, the repentant Whoreson Junior is just starting to do well. It’d be a shame if anything happened to him after he’s finally seen fit to turn in his ways.”

“Don’t worry,” Geralt smiled, “We’ve got your back. Captain Merrin’ll stand guard behind you at all times.”

Dudu watched him some more, sighed, and dropped his arms. “Alright,” he said, “but if the real Emhyr hears about this and sets a pyre, I expect a speedy rescue as well.”

“Deal,” Geralt said, lips twitching.

Ciri raised predictable objections to the whole plan, but Geralt managed to appease her in the end by promising that as long as she came quietly, she could be there when Dandelion put on the performance. Emhyr was not pleased by the prospect of putting the Empress of the North and South in unnecessary danger (“it’s your life, Father, of course it’s necessary!”), but finally conceded after a long and forbidding conversation with Morvran, over the megascope. He then proceeded to express his remaining displeasure by giving Geralt a particularly hard and unforgiving fuck, which, all things considered, Geralt could not really complain about.

When Geralt woke the next morning, Emhyr was up again at the table.

“You will recall that I said these victims bore no relation to each other,” Emhyr said without turning his back. “That is in fact, incorrect.”

Geralt sighed, and sat up. “They are related?”

“Not by blood,” Emhyr said. “By politics. To put simply, their career in the Nilfgaardian army were under the patronage of a few noble families. All of whom are known loyalists, but all the more worrying for it.”

Geralt pondered about this. “So these kills,” he said slowly, “Were not simple results of incompetence. Someone did want these men dead.”

“Precisely,” Emhyr said. “This is not a simple issue of the assassination of a former Emperor.” He sounded mild but his eyes were intent, as if he was observing an interesting twist in one of their shah games. “This is a sabotage.”

“Try not to keel over in excitement,” Geralt said sarcastically. “Your life is on the line as well.”

“I am used to that notion,” Emhyr said offhandedly. “A carefully constructed political manoeuvre such as this, however, will be inevitably undermine Cirrila’s rule. That is a far more serious matter.”

“Hrm,” Geralt said. He really hated politics.

Emhyr paused. “You seem to have an opinion on the matter.”

Geralt sighed. “How did you keep yourself alive all these years, if you pay so little regard to your assassination attempts?”

Emhyr glanced at him then, surprised. “I assure you, I very much pay regard to my own safety.”

Geralt spread a hand in an ‘enlighten me’ gesture. Emhyr returned to the table.

“I am with you,” he said simply.

Geralt stared at Emhyr’s back, amazed. It didn’t sound like a declaration of affection, but —

He let the silence go on for a few seconds too long, and Emhyr straightened again.

“Am I wrong?” Emhyr asked, impeccably calm, conversational.

Something worked at Geralt’s throat, and he had to clear it before answering. “No,” he said. “No.”

Emhyr nodded and simply went back to the parchment, and Geralt stared at him in wonderment, unsure of he read too much into the brief exchange.

Eventually Emhyr moved to the megascope and launched into another long and overly complex conversation with Morvran, who looked increasingly harried, and Geralt, being reasonably certain that Emhyr would be safe for now, suddenly felt the need for some air. He left the room — Emhyr barely glanced at him — and gave a sarcastic nod to Captain Merrin, who looked sour and aggravated, but nodded back nonetheless.

He walked aimlessly around Hierarch Square, squinting at the remains of Radovid’s pyres: Emhyr had rid Novigrad of the worst of the witch hunting activities, but the Hierarch still held nominal control over the city. The smell of burning books and flesh was still fresh. Everywhere around him, beggars stretched and yawned, spat, the drunk sung and vomited, strumpets giggled behind barely closed doors; but the sounds of the night was also giving to that of the day: merchants were setting up in the square, morning market goers were arriving.

Geralt spotted the shady merchant straight away and a thought sprung to his mind. He marched over and broodingly shadowed over his stall.

“Hey there,” Geralt said, with a healthy touch of menace.

The merchant gulped. “I’ve no coin,” he whined pitifully.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I’m not after coin,” he said. “Listen, the trinket you gave me last time. How exactly does it work?”

The merchant squinted at him. “You don’t know? But — I thought — ”

“Humour me,” Geralt said.

The merchant stared at him, swallowed, then lowered his voice. “It’s a True Heart charm,” he said, “It’s supposed to keep you in disguise, except to the only person that sees your true heart, for who you really are.”

“True heart?” Geralt said, frowning.

“Aye, it’s rare, not just a simple charm, would’ve cost a fortune on an open market,” The merchant said, “I should really pack up and go south, war is bad for business…” He trailed off at the look on Geralt’s face.

“You were saying,” Geralt said, with an uneasy sense of foreboding.

The merchant gulped. “Aye, a True Heart charm, it’s — it’s sometimes used by couples looking to elope, they’d wear each and appear non-recognisable to anyone except each other,” The merchant said. “Some call it the True Love charm, which is why I tried to warn you, it’s not really a glamour charm, is it, but you were in such a hurry — ”

“True love charm,” Geralt repeated, feeling as if he had been truck by a Shaelmaar head on. “That’s — what?” he said helplessly.

“Well,” The merchant watched him worriedly. “That’s what they say. Doesn’t necessarily have to be — although, if there’s only one person in the world that sees you for who you are, it’s probably your one true love, right?”

“Right,” Geralt said, and went around the square dazedly three times.

When he wandered back to the Kingfisher, Emhyr was still on the megascope.

“Ban the Temple’s charm sales, with a plausible reason,” Emhyr was saying, “And find me who has been asking after the loyalists. I trust you understand the importance of discretion.”

Morvran nodded and wiped his brow, and catching sight of Geralt, appeared visibly relieved. “Master Geralt,” he said, “I will take my leave then.” He disappeared as the megascope whined and powered down. The room fell silent again.

Emhyr turned to watch him. “Did you find the walk refreshing,” he said.

Geralt was still reeling, but there was something about the way Emhyr asked the question that gave him pause: Emhyr pronounced ‘refreshing’ as if it were synonymous with ‘enlightening’.

Geralt looked at Emhyr, down at the charm hanging around his neck, and up at Emhyr’s face, seeing the same man stare back at him; the Urcheon of Erlenwald, Duny, The Emperor of Nilfgaard and the Known World, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, Emhyr var Emeris. It was ironic, even, he realised with a pang, that he had never been able to outrun his var Emeris destiny; he always circled back to them, to that fateful day when Emhyr said, ‘I am in your debt’. Emhyr had always been Emhyr to him, and he was a fool.

“Incredibly,” Geralt said. He wasn’t sure what expression he was wearing, but Emhyr’s face softened a little, and his eyes were saying Geralt was indeed a fool again, so Geralt sighed, strode over and kissed him into silence.

The news that the Great Master Dandelion was going to perform a panegyric to the former Emperor of Nilfgaard caused quite a stir, and the news travelled far and wide. Dandelion, who was not unused to fame, suddenly found himself thrust in the midst of extended court politics, and he complained to Geralt incessantly.

“I can’t decide which is worse,” Dandelion said, indignant, “Those who accuse me of selling my art to Emhyr, or those who suddenly decide to sidle up to me because they think I’m now selling my art to Emhyr!”

“All for a good cause,” Geralt said beatifically.

“You are in a good mood,” Dandelion said, giving him the stinky eye. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Immeasurably,” Geralt said, and Dandelion scoffed.

Rosemary and Thyme was teeming with people again. Dandelion had went to the pains of installing a window on the first floor landing, that served as an impromptu box seat, and cordoned off the entire upper floor for “Imperial use”. Captain Merrin was standing behind Dudu with a ticking jaw and a murderous look, so much so that any onlookers hoping to lucky with the Emperor Emeritus scattered from the stairs.

“So, the Ruby suite,” Geralt said. Dandelion groaned.

“Yes, yes, alright,” Dandelion said, “As promised. Just — don’t trash it, okay, I plan to sell it at a premium after the Imperial visit, I have to recuperate some of the costs, you know — ”

“Break a leg,” Geralt said cheerfully, patting Dandelion on the shoulder.

Emhyr looked up when Geralt entered.

“Beauclair White?” Geralt said, shaking the bottle a little.

“Cirilla is late,” Emhyr said, by way of reply. He took the bottle, glanced at Geralt, and poured into a single goblet. “I take it you don’t drink while working.”

“Not wine, in any case,” Geralt said. “Ciri’s probably just caught up in some empress business, nobles to woo, papers to sign. I thought you didn’t want her to come?”

“I would prefer she did not put herself in danger for my sake,” Emhyr replied. “However, she must manage her time well. If she acquiesces to every demand on her time, she will run herself into the ground before the end of the year.”

Geralt’s lip twitched. “Try not to get too comfortable in your advice-giving, sage-looking priest role now,” he said. “Ciri can handle herself.”

Emhyr pursed his lips and said nothing. Below them, Dandelion plucked a few notes on the lute, and the tavern fell silent: a soft tune began to fill the room.

“I should thank you, perhaps,” Emhyr said, voice low, after a while. Dandelion’s voice was weaving in and out of the warm, wine-filled air, a surprisingly mellow start for a panegyric.

“Hmmm?” Geralt turned to look at Emhyr, but Emhyr was nursing the goblet, head bowed low, with a pensive look on his face.

“For taking care of her,” Emhyr continued. “It is evident that when she encounters difficulties, she drew strength from the time spent with you.” He sounded conversational, matter-of-fact even, but there was a hint of wistfulness in the way his fingers rubbed absently around the goblet. Geralt considered this.

“She’s a good kid,” Geralt said. “And you still have a chance. She looks up to you, as an Empress. I can’t help much in that regard.” Then, as an afterthought, Geralt sighed with a heavy feeling of resignation. “I really hate politics.”

Emhyr’s lip twitched. “This is of little comfort to Radovid, I’m certain,” he said dryly.

Dandelion’s song picked up in pace, and they listened for a while to the Ode to Nilfgaard. It was enrapturing, actually, and even Geralt was impressed; Dandelion’s fame was well deserved. The whole tavern listened with attentiveness as people long oppressed under Radovid’s mad rule were whisked away to a capital city that was filled with prosperity, peace, and glory.

Geralt heard a soft crack on the roof, and moments later Ciri dropped in through the window. Emhyr raised an eyebrow and glanced at Geralt accusingly, as if this unbecoming behaviour was all Geralt’s fault; but Geralt only shrugged his shoulders and beamed happily, because it probably was. Ciri wore a cloak and smelled faintly of rain and Ozone, and she hugged Geralt tightly again.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ciri whispered. “I forgot we were holding a ball, and I had to be there long enough for pretences, ” Ciri wrinkled her nose. “I see now how being frightening to your subjects might be useful. At least you can tell them you left early so that they can actually have a good time.”

“That is the unique challenge of a benevolent rule,” Emhyr said.

“Yes, Morvran told me it’s _unbecoming_ to have someone executed simply because they spoke in flowery sentences,” Ciri said. “More’s the pity.”

“Careful, the power’s getting to you,” Geralt said, and Ciri swatted him in the shoulder.

They sat and listened to the rest of Dandelion’s song, and even Geralt admitted that it was very skilfully woven. Dandelion avoided all mentions of Emhyr’s spectacular military defeats, most of which Geralt had a role to play in, and focused instead on the civilisation-building of Nilfgaard; he sung the Empire of the Black Sun and made people think of a place unplagued by war and monsters, where progress was celebrated, at the centre of the known world. It made people look forward to being included, to rebuild their city and call it home.

The final few notes lingered in the air, and Dandelion bowed deeply to clamorous applause. People looked at each other with hope in their eyes, happy that war was over, that normality might soon return.

“Perhaps we _should_ consider hiring Master Dandelion as a court bard,” Emhyr said dryly.

The crowd slowly began to mingle and disperse. Geralt scanned the floor below: Dandelion beamed widely at his female fans, many of whom held out handkerchiefs and personal items wanting autographs; several noblewoman conversed excitedly among themselves and were throwing glances at Dudu; in the commotion the stair cordon had come loose and several important looking nobleman were already making their way towards the landing. A wealthy looking townsman walked up to Dudu, bowed, and murmured something; Dudu leaned forward with a frown. There was something familiar about the townsman that made Geralt look twice, just as the man raised his head —

Then he saw it. Geralt leapt out of the room and unsheathed his sword in one fluid motion, just in time to knock the dagger out of the townsman’s hand, which fell to the floor with a clang. Dudu, to his credit, only took two steps backwards and was barking an order to Captain Merrin, who had also leapt forward and promptly crushed the townsman to the floor.

“I know you,” Geralt breathed. “You were the other bidder in the auction.”

The man spat at Geralt, and struggled against Captain Merrin’s grip. “Ceasʼraet evelienn deireadh,” he said, through gritted teeth, “Ceasʼraet evelienn deireadh — ”

Geralt felt his medallion hum before he saw it, and he struck out blindly against a cold hard blade. A scream, then the sound of scraping chairs and yelling, and Geralt shouted: “Dandelion! Get everyone out!” and quickly cast a sign of Quen, and rolled into the newcomer who just appeared out of a portal. Ciri shouted and disappeared in a flash of white, reappearing split seconds later behind the assassin, and together they held the man between sword point: the man stood frozen on the spot, eyes wide. Geralt stared at him: the assassin was a young elf with a pale face and a startled look, he was barely a man, no more than fourteen summers, only a boy. There was something unsettling in his eyes that Geralt could not place, it was both dead and wild at the same time, some raw and uncontrolled power that was threatening to burst forth in his slim frame. The elf muttered something under his breath and frowned deeply in concentration; a ripple was beginning to form around him. Ciri gasped. The smell of Ozone rose in the air and Geralt instinctively threw a Yrden, and the elf howled in agony — he looked as if he was coming apart at the seams. Then Geralt suddenly understood with a cold clarity what this was.

“Avallac’h,” Geralt said with feeling, “Oh, that _bastard_.”

“You mean he actually made — ?” Ciri said, stepping closer, watching warily as the elf began to shimmer, “But he doesn’t look — he’s not — ”

“No,” Geralt said, harsh. This was some sort of arcane and unstable magic, and if he had to guess, the power emanated from the amulet the elf was wearing. Either this was Avallac’h’s doing or someone got their hands on Avallac’h’s research and made a mess of it, and in any case, this elf appeared to be stuck in between states of living and a wraith. There were brief moments of clear pain in the boy’s eyes, muddled by inhuman rage, and Geralt’s hand stilled on the hilt of his sword — maybe if he severed the amulet —

The elf boy threw his head upwards and began to scream, a terrible, white-filled scream that was at once familiar and strange. The windows began to clatter and furniture started to move, and Geralt felt his breath being knocked out of him; the tavern will not stand long in this onslaught of raw power.

“Ciri,” Geralt said through gritted teeth and he attempted another Quen shield, “Take Emhyr and go — you need to get out of here —” But Ciri was staring at the elf with a strange expression on her face, seemingly unaffected by the emanating waves of terrible power, while everyone cowered and fell to the floor covering their ears.

“Essea — cáerme — ” The elf wailed, and the sound was being drawn forcefully out of him; Ciri took a step forward, and he jerked to the side. The Yrden trap faded; and the elf gained in strength, he threw his arms up and the roof rumbled ominously. Geralt watched, helpless, but something was also happening to Ciri: there was a green light surrounding her now, and she kept taking deliberative steps towards the elf, majestically almost, drawing herself to her full height.

Ciri leaned forward, and grasped the amulet in both her hands.

“The Elder Blood should not enslave anyone,” Ciri said, regal and calm, “I release you.”

An eerie green light began to emanate from the amulet, and the elf raised his head: “Cáerme,” he murmured, and a single tear rolled down his cheek; his shimmering form grew incandescently for a few seconds, and shattered like a pane of glass. A drought of wind rushed through the tavern like a sigh, and all fell quiet again.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked, sheathing his sword.

Ciri was staring at the spot the elf boy disappeared, face drawn. “I could feel him,” Ciri said, after a few seconds, “The Elder Blood resonated… he couldn’t hurt me. I never thought…” she trailed off, pensive.

The sound of commotion slowly began to grow again. Geralt could hear Dandelion doing his best to assure his customers that the Rosemary and Thyme was a perfectly safe establishment, under the protection of Whoreson Junior and the White Wolf, actually; several noblewomen had swooned and their servants were urgently calling for smelling salts; Nilfgaardian soldiers clamoured to contain the panicking crowd, and Zoltan was shouting at the top of his lungs that anyone trying to stampede over anyone else will have to answer to his axe. Geralt turned and searched for Emhyr, and found him kneeling next to the townsman, who was now held at sword point by Captain Merrin.

 “…Varnhagen, then,” Emhyr was saying, voice perfectly calm and face a mask, “You will do well to remember that while the Court tolerates family feuds among nobles, such liberality is not extended when it affects the Empress herself. Was this necromancy.”

The townsman glared at Emhyr and bared his teeth.

“Yes, very unusual,” Emhyr concluded. “Who was the sorceress? Ah, _sorcerer_. The Chapter? Terranova, I presume — no, Gerhart. Ah. He left behind a wealth of knowledge, I hear. Was this a known association. No. I see. I’m afraid you have made a grave mistake, estranged son of Varnhagen. And you shall pay the price.”

“He didn’t say a word,” Geralt said, when Emhyr straightened.

“He did not need to,” Emhyr said. He gave a curt nod to Captain Merrin, who dragged the townsman up to his feet. “Transport him for holding in the Temple Isle. I must speak with Morvran.”

Geralt sat with Ciri while Emhyr spoke at length with Morvran on the megascope. He found two bottles of Cote de Blessure stacked behind a shelf in the kitchen and cracked open them both, drinking in pensive silence and drifting in and out of Emhyr’s conversation. Emhyr spoke with conviction and certainty, with the quiet determination of someone making a final and calculated play at shah, and Morvran responded with what sounded like nobility names, complex political associations and subterfuge, and finally Emhyr nodded and stepped away.

“It is fortuitous that the palace is hosting a ball,” Emhyr said.

“Lemme guess,” Geralt said, “You’ve ordered the guards to cut down whoever just tried to make a beeline.”

“With more finesse, but yes,” Emhyr said. “Cirrilla. You look troubled.”

Ciri hummed and twirled the bottle in her hand. “I just never thought Avallac’h would go through the experiment,” she said. “Poor boy. Imagine dying of a failed experiment, then getting dug up, trapped and used as a tool for petty politics. Not the best destiny, is it?” She said the word ‘petty’ in such an offhanded way, Geralt realised with a sudden pang that it sounded very much like Emhyr. “I wonder if there are more like him out there.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Geralt said, as Emhyr said, “We will find out,” at the same time. They exchanged a glance, and despite himself, Geralt smiled.

Ciri nodded, head still bowed low. After a few seconds, she sighed, straightened, and appeared to shake herself out of the reverie. She stood up and turned to look at Geralt, smiling slightly.

“Did the guy really try to win you at the auction?” Ciri said, a familiar dancing mirth in her eye. “He really thought he could get you to go along with this?”

“Well,” Geralt said. “Witchers are meant to be neutral.”

Ciri snorted. Even Emhyr raised an eyebrow.

“What would Papa Vesemir say,” Ciri said, in an annoyingly good impression of Lambert, and Geralt felt pride swell in his chest even as he rolled his eyes. Emhyr watched them with a tolerant expression.

Eventually, Geralt could no longer ignore Dandelion’s dramatic whisper just outside the door, (“Do you think they are alright? Geralt can’t be responsible for _another_ regicide”), which, judging by the look on Ciri’s face, did not need Witcher senses to be heard. Geralt sighed heartily.

“I think he just wanna know if we trashed the room,” Geralt said. Then he looked around and grimaced.

“I’m sure he will be compensated accordingly,” Emhyr said. Ciri perked up.

“Does that mean I can give Dandelion an imperial endorsement?” She asked, “You said it was a terrible idea.”

“And it remains so, although I do not see how after the events of today he will still need an official endorsement,” Emhyr said. “No. I meant Geralt.”

Geralt nearly choked in surprise. “The Ruby suite?” he said, aggravated, “This will cost at least fifty drowners, five archgriffins, and maybe a forktail altogether!”

“Mmm, I’m sure you will find suitable work somehow,” Emhyr said.

“You two are _exceedingly_ weird,” Ciri said, eyeing them suspiciously. “Did something happen while I was away?”

Geralt glared at Emhyr and wrung open the door with unnecessary force. Dandelion, who had evidently pressed an ear against the door, stumbled, but regained posture quickly through an elaborate bow. Geralt sighed again. Dandelion ignored him pointedly and said, in a formal albeit slightly squeaky voice foreboding a great amount of flowery language,

“Your majesties, it has been an honour — ”

He straightened, saw the state of the room, and fell comically silent with his mouth agape.

“I will pay you back,” Geralt said, wincing, “Just — lemme have a look at the noticeboards first.” And the noticeboards in ten surrounding villages, Geralt thought gloomily.

Dandelion recovered with an heroic effort, jaws clicking audibly as his mouth closed. “Whatever was necessary for your safety, your Imperial Highness,” he said meekly, darting a look at Emhyr.

“Let’s go to another room,” Ciri said, taking pity on him, “and grab a drink. Like old times. I heard Zoltan downstairs, get him to come too, I missed everyone, tell me about everything — ”

Dandelion’s shoulder sagged with relief and they disappeared from the doorway, a few seconds later, Geralt heard Dandelion’s much less stilted voice talking to Ciri, asking about her palace life in Nilfgaard, “must be so dull, they don’t even allow you to drink on the job — ” and Ciri laughing heartily in response.

Geralt stared at the direction that they went longingly. “I need to speak to Madam Sasha,” he said, morose, “Maybe she’s open to running another high stake Gwent tournament.”

Emhyr glanced at him amusedly. “Gambling rarely works in your favour when you are in desperate need of funds,” he said.

Geralt groaned. “You are really taking the priest disguise thing to heart, aren’t you,” he said, sarcastic, “Don’t get too comfortable dishing out sagely advice, it’s _unbecoming_ for a retired Emperor.”

Emhyr’s lip twitched. He set down his goblet and turned to face him. “I plan to resume my journey to Toussaint,” he said by way of reply.

Geralt paused. He had not considered what Emhyr will do when this was over. Of course, he knew at the back of his mind and as a concept that Emhyr cannot possibly want to stay in Novigrad, and Toussaint was a choice retirement destination for everyone in the Empire, but there was something about the way Emhyr said it that made a small kindle of hope blossom in his chest. Emhyr said Toussaint in the way he said most things in the privacy of their quarters, laden with meaning and subtext, and when Geralt looked up, Emhyr was regarding him with a soft expression, of quiet satisfaction and amusement.

“It is still a very long way to the South,” Emhyr continued. “I fear the roads through Velen might be perilous.”

He had not even thought about this five heartbeats ago, but of course Emhyr being Emhyr was always ten steps ahead. Geralt stared at him and felt his heart do a little skip. “At least fifty drowners, I think,” he said, feeling a smile tugging at his lips, “Maybe even a couple of archgriffins and a forktail, if we are lucky.”

Emhyr’s lips curved slightly upwards. “Will you take the contract,” he said.

Geralt hummed as he pretended to think about this. “Only if the payment is upfront,” he said. “Dandelion will throw a hissy fit if we leave without fixing the Ruby suite.”

“That is easily arranged,” Emhyr inclined his head. Then, “I am pleased the prospect of work excites you,” he said, because Geralt was grinning stupidly now.

“Oh, just thinking,” Geralt said, kicking the door closed behind him and stalking towards Emhyr, who had an indulgent look in his eye that made Geralt’s heart do stupid little dances. “Captain Merrin will have a field day when he hears of this. He’s been so looking forward to getting rid of me.”

“Has he,” Emhyr murmured, wounding a hand around the back of Geralt’s neck. “I’m afraid he will have to be disappointed.”

Geralt hummed happily. “That _is_ an exciting prospect,” he said.

Emhyr regarded him closely, a searching look in his eye, and Geralt realised with a start that he had given an answer to a question he was not aware of being asked. It took several heartbeats for him to acknowledge that he didn’t mind, either.

“I really ought to thank Dandelion,” Geralt said with sudden epiphany, as he was pressed against the bed. That realisation, at least, was ridiculous enough that he could not help but snort after voicing it.

Emhyr kissed him tolerantly. “All for a good cause,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “You know he’s going to rename this room the Imperial Suite, and charge a premium in your name now,” he said.

“An enterprising individual, as well as a talented bard,” Emhyr said agreeably. “Must we continue discussing another while I have you in my bed.”

“Why are you still wearing this?” Geralt said, lifting the charm that now hang in front of Emhyr’s chest. Emhyr hummed, and pulled Geralt closer, his hand tugged on Geralt’s hair, just a degree south of painful.

“I bet you had it all figured out,” Geralt breathed. He didn’t even mind that Emhyr was avoiding the question. “You just like to watch other people play catch up.” He didn’t very much mind that, either; he had always been jumping headfirst into relationships long before he realised why he was doing it, and Emhyr has always outplayed him in shah.

“Still conversational,” Emhyr murmured. “Perhaps that mouth of yours could be put to better use.”

Geralt went instantly hard. “Oh god yes,” he said, dropping to his knees. Emhyr kept a tight grip on his hair and smelled of a familiar pine and smoke, and Geralt stopped being conversational for a good while. Emhyr took himself into his hand when he came, and casually wrapped the same hand around Geralt’s cock, making Geralt gasp; Geralt’s mind whited out for some indeterminate time, as Emhyr stroked him steady, fast and hard, just the right side of harsh. The pace Emhyr had set was inexorable, and Geralt felt, hazy with desire but also with a ridiculous sense of certainty, that _this_ was also a conversation, laden with meaning, more than words. Emhyr bore down on him as he drew close to climax, and said, in that deep dulcet conversational tone of his,

“The palace library has a wide collection of books on magical charms.”

Geralt came all over Emhyr’s hand, sobbing a little in laughter, feeling warm and absurd at the same time, because how is this sexy, but warm and absurd pretty much summed up the span of his emotions now with Emhyr, and god, he wasn’t even surprised.

“So you did know,” Geralt said after a while, after his verbal ability returned to a reasonable extent. He flopped back onto the bed and crossed his arms behind his head, beaming slightly at the ceiling. Emhyr lied down next to him, and hummed in noncommittal agreement. Geralt thought about this, turned his head to watch Emhyr, then smirked.

“Elaborate,” Emhyr said, eyes closed.

“You’re gonna have to explain this to Ciri,” Geralt said, smug.

A tendril of alarm passed over Emhyr’s features, and Geralt laughed. He rolled over, pressed against Emhyr, and said, “All for a good cause,” and kissed him happily.

 

\- END - 

**Author's Note:**

> Aye, the plot has more holes than a wheel of Beauclair cheese but I'm just glad it's at least finished. Mostly I just wanted to write a story with some of my favourite characters, because it's a pity that everyone disappears after the main game. Hope you've enjoyed!


End file.
